


True Ugliness

by dirksnipples



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Sad, Stress, The reason for the characters tagged as mentioned is obvious once you start reading, Worry, maybe some self hate, reflecting, slight depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirksnipples/pseuds/dirksnipples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what being ugly really means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Ugliness

**Author's Note:**

> I've been stressed really bad lately, so I wrote a stress reliever. I own none of the characters.

I can do some things in a fast manor, but the anxiety that flows through me, bashing into me like someone's hitting me with bricks can stop what I need to do. It stops me from what I have to do, and leaves me for what I want to do. 

I can try to believe in myself, try to yell at myself in my hoarse screaming voice that I can do this. I can mount to everything, and I know I can but the stress eats away at my whole being. The stress absorbs who I am leaving me a carcass full of fear. Anxiety. Sweat. Forcing me to cry and gasp out that right now, I can't do this. 

I want to show everyone that I don't need the help, that just because I have brains doesn't mean I want to be that scientist they dream of. That I'm an adult, that I don't need to have things done for me and I can be who I want to be. I want to prove myself, but how can I prove myself with the dark shadows of grotesque monsters seething over me? Haunting me and whispering how I can't do this. 

I want to do this. 

But the question is can I?

My love for someone may never be the same, yet I tell myself that maybe there is a chance. Maybe the deities hear my cry of want, maybe bless me with this one gift that my love for this person will go somewhere. That maybe they will hold me in their arms and want me. Need me. Whisper those soothing words of 'I love you' again to me in my ear.

That I won't lose bonds with friends, or worsen the love for those who I care so deeply for all because of the dark looming ghost that is stress. Anxiety. 

That I'll be able to always be my own person and do what I want to do, but the ghost still whispers that I have to do something that will raise my class. Something that will make me worth something to society, yet not myself because of the illusion that we all put up by trying to impress people or be who our family wanted us to be. 

I want to write words of life on a single page with my endless ink as my thin boney fingers tap away at a rapid pace making worlds of wonder. Worlds of freedom. I want to live that freedom. I want the love in that freedom. 

I want the person I love to love me. I want that to be a reality. I want to have an expensive tux and spend my last years with that person, and the anxiety that I feel when I think of it not happening is something that pushes me down. 

Knowing you have to give up on something yet don't is what messes everything up. There is always a chance, I never once said there wasn't, but I know I also have to live and face reality. The reality that it may not happen, and that's when the creepy crawling bugs swarm over me and eat me. Devouring me and filling me with fear. 

With anxiety. 

With heavy panting breaths and fast heart beats as my entire being panics. 

I fear for my bonds that I share. 

I fear that I push away these special people, that I push to much hurt onto them. 

I know they love me, I never said they didn't. I know I care for them deeply, they know I do. 

But it doesn't ever stop how I feel inside. 

Like I'm trying to make everything about me when that's never my intention. 

Like when I always have more words full of stress to say and I'm a burden to have when my special bonds have to listen to me. My words are a burden to them, and I lace them together and tie up my special family with this stress because I'm stressed. 

My dark spirits are gripping onto them and that was never my intention. 

Never my way. 

I will never be as handsome-as beautiful- as that one guy next to me in class. I will never be that one that everyone wants because I have what society has labeled as below average looks. I will always be the victim of men and women's words of who is the hottest versus the ugliest in class or the venom of string cutting through my ears when I hear a disgusted noise thrown my way because they say I am not beautiful. 

I never said I wasn't beautiful. I never said I was ugly. 

I am beautiful in my own way, and even if women or men don't want to ever date me because they only think I'm 'cute' that will not deter me. That will never stop who I am. 

I am more beautiful than those people would ever be. 

But the ever longing fear of what my vocal cords gouge into my special bond's ear drums is what drives me to think less of myself. 

The constant fear that I'm grabbing weights and putting my burdening voice on their shoulders to carry is what makes me ugly. 

The constant stress and letting this vile beast eat me is what makes me ugly. 

The constellations of water that litter my cheeks because I've given up is what makes me weak.

I am from the constant yells of being myself and the stern voices of people telling me that I should be that scientist. That I should major in something that actually makes money. 

From monsters sizing me up and telling me I am worthless. I am ugly and I could never make adventures. That I could never make a living off of my average boney hands slicing through paper and making below average things. 

I am not good at everything or anything. I don't have people telling me to go to that school and be a writer. I don't have people telling me to write that one book I said I would go at three months ago. I'm not amazing at the voice of the pencil, nor am I amazing with words on a paper. I am below average on society's fake scale full of lies of how humans have to be. 

Should be. 

I never said that I wasn't special, that I wasn't somewhat talented. I never said I wasn't beautiful, or that there will never be a chance. I never said that my family and friends didn't love me, or that I couldn't do anything. I never once told myself that I should give up and be what society wants me to be. 

Because if I did that, then I would be ugly. 

I am ugly because this dark ashen cloud is eating me. It is devouring me because I choose stress and let anxiety consume me. 

That is what being ugly really means.


End file.
